


The Second Time Around

by prattery



Series: The Long Way Round [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon Needs a Hug, Arthur Pendragon Returns (Merlin), Don't copy to another site, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Reincarnation, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23770855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prattery/pseuds/prattery
Summary: There's no world where Arthur wouldn’t recognise Merlin. Unfortunately, it's not the same the other way around.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: The Long Way Round [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693243
Comments: 47
Kudos: 494





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you do read it as a standalone, here's a brief recap of what happened in the previous fic:  
> -Merlin saved Arthur and died at Camlann  
> -There's a lot of grieving  
> -Arthur brought magic back to Camelot

Arthur meets Merlin, impossibly, at the pub near uni.

The moment Arthur’s eyes land on Merlin, it feels as though all the air has left the room. His breath catches in his throat and he knows, in his heart’s heart, that it’s Merlin. Merlin’s hair is a bit longer on the top, with neatly trimmed sides and back, but those eyes sparkle the same, and Arthur would recognise them anywhere.

“You alright, Arthur?” He hears Leon’s concerned voice, though it sounds far away. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Leon,” Arthur’s voice is strangled. “Please tell me I’m not seeing things.”

Leon follows his gaze—the rest of them all do—and there’s a collective sharp intake of breath.

“Is that—?” Percy trails off.

“Merlin,” Arthur finishes. His eyes are glued on Merlin. “Go, find us a seat. I’ll get the first round.”

Gwaine sputters a protest, but Arthur pays him no mind. In his peripheral vision, he can see Leon and Percy ushering Gwaine away, muttering something in his ears.

When he reaches the bar, Merlin is pulling pints with practised movements and the same deftness he had putting Arthur’s armour on. He looks to be about the same age as Arthur, just a year or two older from when Arthur first met him in Camelot.

_Oh shit,_ Arthur thought, _he’s fucking fit._

He’s not lanky and fey and wide-eyed, the way he was in Camelot when he first came. He’s more reminiscent of what he looked like later, when Arthur was already king and running him ragged about the place. His body has filled out nicely, and Arthur can see the outline of his chest through his clothes. He’s wearing a grey t-shirt and dark jeans, a lanyard hanging from his exposed neck, smiling as he serves his customers with easy charm. It’s jarring to see Merlin without his neckerchief on, but Arthur’s not complaining. He supposes neckerchiefs are a bit outdated, these days. He wasn't even sure if they were ever in fashion. 

Arthur allows himself to drink in the sight of Merlin, alive and breathing. Through the years, Arthur has forgotten the little details—the sharpness of his cheekbones, the plumpness of his lips, and the exact blue of his eyes. Arthur swallows against the sudden burn in his throat when Merlin turns to face him.

“Hi, what can I get you?” Merlin says, wiping his hands on his apron. Arthur’s heart gives a painful thud at the sound of Merlin’s voice. The timbre of his voice is lower, now, and he speaks with a lilting Welsh accent. 

There’s no hint of recognition on Merlin’s face. Arthur’s heart drops. He swallows again and takes a deep, steadying breath. He has spent most of his life thinking of the exact things he’d say to Merlin when Arthur finally sees him again, but nothing could prepare him for eventualities where Merlin doesn’t know Arthur on sight. Arthur simply never thought that it was possible. They had a destiny and everything, but now Merlin doesn’t even recognise him.

“Just four pints of the house lager, mate, please.” Arthur hears himself say. His heart is racing, and there’s a crushing disappointment that Arthur struggles not to let show on his face.

“Sure,”

“Merlin,” Arthur blurts out, unable to help himself.

“Rhys,” Merlin—Rhys, now, apparently—corrects him with a cheeky smile. “Why, do I look like a Merlin?”

Arthur stutters out a laugh. He’s getting _nervous_ , of all things, in front of Merlin, and he’s only distantly aware of how utterly ridiculous he is being.

“Something like that,” Arthur replies, in a tone he hopes is friendly. It comes out sounding a bit strangled. He forces himself to remember that Gwaine and Percy didn’t remember when they first met, either, and it doesn’t mean that it’ll stay that way forever.

Arthur swears to be there when Merlin remembers.

“Fourteen forty, please.” Merlin says without looking. “Cash or card?”

“Card, please.”

“You alright getting all that to the table? Do you need a hand?”

“I’m alright, but thanks,” Arthur grabs the two pints nearest to him. “I’ll just make two trips, shall I,” he winks, before stiffening, not knowing where the hell that came from. He can’t bring himself to regret it too much, though, especially seeing the blush rising on Merlin’s cheeks.

He buys all the rounds that day. If he only did it so he could be near Merlin again, well, nobody had to know.

* * *

Arthur returns the very next day.

“Back so soon?” Merlin greets him. The pub is quieter today, and there’s no queue at the bar. Arthur wasn’t sure if Merlin would be there, but he hoped anyway.

“Liked the vibe,” Arthur lies.

Merlin pointedly stares at the unimpressive decor before regarding Arthur with a quirked eyebrow. The pub is cosy with its wooden floors and dark furnishings, but it really could be any other pub. The decor is inoffensive, but his father would describe the pub as _alright_.

Arthur smiles sunnily.

“Just alone today?”

“Yeah, mates all busy.” To be honest, Arthur didn’t bother to ask if any of them were free. “Just a pint the house lager for me please.”

Merlin reaches for a glass from the overhead racks and starts pouring a pint before he speaks again. “You know, I don’t think I caught your name yesterday.”

“It’s Arthur.” Arthur’s braced for it, but he can’t help but feel his heart breaking in his chest. There’s a spark of hope blossoming too, though, knowing that Merlin at least remembers him from yesterday, especially considering how many patrons Merlin must serve each day.

“You remember all your patrons?”

“No, just ones who got all the rounds for the table, because that’s the sort of mate I need in my life,” Merlin sighs. “I thought you looked like an Arthur. George, maybe, or something ridiculously posh, like Wigbert, or something.”

Arthur snorts, incredulous. “Wigbert?”

“I don’t know, mate, there’s someone called _Titus_ on my course, seems like anything’s a fair game.” Merlin snickers at Arthur’s offended look. “Is that why you called me Merlin yesterday, eh, Arthur?” he teases. “Like the wizard from the legends?”

“Maybe it just suits you,” Arthur says easily.

“No flirting during work hours, please,” a feminine voice calls from the cash register. Arthur didn’t notice her before, too focused on Merlin and the prospect of speaking to him again. Now, though, he recognises the voice immediately, and his head whips towards the direction of the voice. The woman’s back is turned to him, her curly dark hair tied neatly, but Arthur knows her immediately.

“Sorry!” Merlin calls back. Merlin gestures at her. “She’s the manager.”

“Gwen?”

Arthur can see the moment she recognises his voice—recognises him, because she turns quickly to face him with a surprised, “Arthur?”

Merlin stares at her, and then at Gwen, and then at Arthur again. “You know each other?”

“Yes,“ Arthur glances at Gwen, _his wife in another life_ , suddenly unsure what to say. “She’s, er, my sister’s best mate.”

Gwen nods enthusiastically. “Should’ve known that you’d end up here,” she says, beaming at him. She always did have a lovely smile, the sort that lights up her whole face. It’s impossible not to smile back at her.

“Yeah, you know what my father’s like,” Arthur grimaces at her. She winces in sympathy. As if he'd ever end up anywhere else.

“How’s Morgana?”

“She’s fine, er,” Arthur swallows, suddenly feeling awkward. He hasn’t spoken to his sister for some years. “Up in Scotland, at the moment, in St. Andrews.”

“Oh,” Gwen must’ve seen something in his expression because she immediately changes the topic. “You remember Lance?” They had reached an understanding, before, back in Camelot. 

Arthur nods. How could he forget? “Is he here, too?”

“No, no. He’s in UCL now, doing Medicine.”

“Oh, well done!”

“Right, er, I’ll just serve the man who just came in, then, shall I,” Merlin mutters, gesturing vaguely at the other side of the bar.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll serve him, you two go on, continue flirting,” Gwen apologises quickly, winking at Arthur. “Listen, let’s all grab dinner later. You can pick the place. Rhys will give you my Facebook!”

“Didn’t say I’ll come!” Merlin calls at her retreating back.

“Won’t you?”

“Nah, course I’ll come,” Merlin dismisses easily. “I’ll pick the place, though, yeah? Posh git like you, I know the sort of place you’ll choose.” Arthur fakes a bristle at being called a git when they just met, even though a rather girly part of him just wants to cry. Merlin insulting him good-naturedly is so familiar, and so terribly missed, though he would die before he would ever admit it in front of Merlin.

“Okay, how about you text me the name of the place,” Arthur concedes, rolling his eyes, working hard to suppress a smile. “But I’m reserving the right to veto it.”

“Works for me,”

* * *

Merlin picks a gastropub just off the high street, a decision that surprises Arthur, considering how much time Merlin already spends in the pub. “Yeah, but it’s nice to be on the other side of it, getting served,” Merlin told him, “and I fancy some pie.”

He wears a shirt for dinner. Arthur’s never seen him in anything other than peasant garb, and the sight of Merlin in proper-fitting clothes, instead of ones that hang off his frame, makes his mouth dry. Gods, he really is fucking fit. There’s a flutter in his stomach that Arthur has never, ever associated with Merlin. Sure, Arthur might’ve loved the man ferociously, before, but he never really thought of Merlin as someone he’d be physically attracted to. He would concede, however, that there could be a certain _appeal_ to his manservant, if one is that way inclined, which Arthur wasn’t. But things are different now.

“Where are you from, then, _Mer_ lin?” Arthur asks him over starters.

Merlin rolls his eyes at the nickname and Arthur’s heart twinges at the familiarity. “Small town in South Wales, you wouldn’t know it,”

“Try me,” Arthur insists. “I’m very good at geography.”

“Carmarthen,” Merlin replied in a challenging tone, quirking a brow.

“I know where that is, actually.” Arthur huffs, fighting down a smile. He looks up to Merlin from under his eyelashes and hazards a guess, “South Wales, isn’t it?”

Merlin lets out a peal of surprised laughter. The sound warms Arthur to the core, and he feels his mouth quirking into an involuntary smile before he catches himself. Gods, he must look downright besotted.

The conversation flows easily after the initial introductions were made. Arthur learns that Merlin—Rhys, but Arthur will continue calling him Merlin because he _is_ Merlin, no matter what he's called—is studying Information and Computer Engineering, that he can work magic with numbers, and that he’s a little bit of a modern-day genius. It doesn’t surprise him in the slightest. Gwen, on the other hand, is studying Education, with aspirations to become the Secretary of State for Education. Arthur wasn’t sure what he expected but soon realised that it’s a career path that would suit her nature greatly.

Between mains and dessert, Merlin excuses himself to go to the loo. 

The moment Merlin goes out of sight, Gwen clasps Arthur’s hands on the table. Her eyes are bright.

“I’m so glad,” she tells him earnestly. “We both have a second chance, now.”

“Let’s do it properly, this time,” Arthur agrees. “Are you happy, Guinevere?”

“Incredibly so,” Gwen answers. “And you will be, too, with him. All in good time, Arthur."

“He doesn’t remember.” Arthur sighs, desolate.

“He will,” Gwen sounds incredibly sure. “We all remembered, eventually.”


	2. Chapter 2

Unlike their previous life in Camelot, they get on immediately. This is partially because Arthur insists on not being a prat, determined not to make a repeat of past mistakes. They got to texting immediately after that first dinner, and then met up for drinks before the week was up.

They start dating just a fortnight after meeting each other for the first time. Arthur refuses to waste any time in getting to know today’s incarnation of Merlin—what is the point, when Arthur already knows that Merlin is _it_ for him from the start?

“Darling,” Arthur tries, the word new on his tongue. They are both on the sofa, just watching the telly, and Arthur’s arm is casually slung around Merlin’s shoulders. Arthur cherishes these little moments, these little affectionate touches that he didn't dare want in Camelot.

There’s a glint of amusement in Merlin’s eyes. And then, because he doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut, he snickers, “you sound like Edina Monsoon.”

Arthur can’t help it—he bursts out laughing and pushes Merlin off.

“Sweetie darling,” Merlin giggles.

“You are, with no doubt,” Arthur pulls Merlin into a headlock before rubbing his knuckles on Merlin’s head, “the most ridiculous man I have ever met.”

“I’m also the only person you met who can put up with you, you complete brute,” Merlin quips back, though he’s wheezing with laughter and his effort to keep Arthur off.

Arthur releases him with a crooked grin. Merlin might’ve ruined the moment, but he can’t be too upset, not when Merlin’s finally here next to him again.

* * *

Arthur insists on calling Rhys Merlin, much to Rhys’ annoyance, and it doesn’t take long for everyone to forget that Merlin wasn’t actually called Merlin. It certainly doesn’t help that the rest of them all remember, except for Merlin.

“Mum’s going to be so upset you ignored the _perfectly good_ name she gave me and just came up with your own,” Merlin bitches at him, three months into their relationship. They are in Arthur’s flat again. Merlin has one of his legs folded on the sofa and a book splayed open on his lap, while Arthur’s on his Xbox. Merlin has been spending more and more time at Arthur's—it’s closer to his campus, after all, and staying over at Arthur means that he can have that ten extra minutes of sleep. The sight of Merlin there, in Arthur’s space, looking like he belongs there and nowhere else, makes Arthur feel all sorts of warm inside. It feels right. Not for the first time, he wonders why they didn’t do it like this the first time around.

Of course, the only thing that Arthur takes out of that sentence is, “I’m meeting your mum?”

“Dunno,” Merlin hums, “should you?”

“I’ll have you know that mums love me,” Arthur says haughtily, though deep down, he’s not so sure that _Merlin's_ mum would. “This is something I’ve been trained to do since birth, you know, meeting important people. She’ll love me more than you, soon enough, and then where will you be?”

“Fucking unbelievable.” Merlin throws his head back in laughter. “You’re such an arse, honestly.”

Arthur knows he must look a right sop, staring at Merlin with a fond smile like this, but he can’t bring himself to care. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of hearing Merlin laugh so carelessly, so easily. The Merlin that Arthur knew from before was ever so burdened, bowed under the weight of his secrets. This Merlin, on the other hand—there’s a lightness to him that is so reminiscent of the way he was when he came to Camelot. He is quick to smile and even quicker to tease, and Arthur is so helpless against his charm.

“You’re the one without any confidence in my ability to get your mum on my side,” Arthur retorts, faking offence.

Merlin just rolls his eyes fondly. “Maybe not anytime soon. She lives a bit far, after all.” He stands up from his seat, mumbling something about putting the kettle on.

“Hmm,” Arthur replies noncommittally. He wonders if Merlin’s mother is Hunith in this life, too. He wonders if she remembers Camelot, and if so, how much she remembers.

Arthur is so lost in thought that he almost misses Merlin coming back into the room, steaming mugs in hand, then promptly tripping over the rug. Except the tea didn’t spill at all, because time has stopped around them. Merlin twitches and looks at the tea _meaningfully,_ and it _flows back into the mug_ , in a way that completely betrays fluid mechanics and breaks every law of physics known to man.

When Arthur glances at Merlin’s eyes, trapped in his body, he got all the confirmation he needed, because Merlin’s eyes are glowing gold. His heart stops in his chest.“You have magic,” Arthur breathes.

“Um,” Merlin’s eyes flicker towards the door, as if he’s going to do a runner right then and there if not for the steaming hot mugs in his hands, “if you want to call it that?”

“Been calling you Merlin, haven’t I?” Arthur lets out a breathless laugh, light-headed with relief, because if Merlin has magic in 21st century Britain, surely that means that his memory would also come back? “Legendary wizard of old? Suits you more than you think.”

“Do you not think it’s weird?”

“Of course it’s fucking weird,” Arthur grins. He must look a right lunatic, but can’t find it in him to care. Merlin sets the mugs down, looking unsure but nonetheless relieved. “Brilliant, too. Not the first I’ve seen, though.”

Merlin turns to him, surprised. “It’s not?”

“Merlin,” Arthur smiles grandly. “Allow me introduce you to my Uncle Gaius.”

* * *

Gaius, too, lives in Cambridgeshire, so Arthur takes Merlin on a drive to meet him. He’s an eccentric old man, now, who forages for mushrooms and herbs often and maintains a compost heap that he’s very proud of. He was a retired doctor, a close friend of his father’s. Arthur has known him since birth.

Gaius was the one who helped him and Morgana when they started remembering. They both knew very well that their father was to be kept outside the loop. It was quite an easy feat, considering how emotionally distant he has always been. It was Gaius who kept both of them sane.

When Gaius sees Merlin, tears well up in the old man’s eyes. He blames it on the hay fever, but Arthur knows better.

“You found him,” Gaius whispers to him, awed. They are in Gaius’ study, which houses what must be thousands of tomes on magic.

“Yes,” Arthur murmurs, but he’s not looking at Gaius. Merlin is taking in everything around him with an eagerness that rivals a child in a sweetshop. It is impossible for Arthur not to smile at the look of awe and wonder written all over Merlin’s face. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

* * *

Arthur dreams, sometimes.

Most often, he dreams of his old life—of feasts and visiting envoys, of the colours during Market Day, or the clash of blades in the training ground. He dreams of hunting trips with his closest knights, of quests he completed with Merlin by his side, of monsters and beasts that he had slain.

He dreams about Merlin’s death more often that he likes. “Never” is preferable, but Arthur would also take “hardly ever”, but unfortunately, that is not the case here. It’s always so incredibly vivid—he can remember, with disturbing detail, everything from the way the sunlight blinds his eyes, the smell of blood and mud, and the groans of dying men.

He remembers how Merlin looked, ethereal with magic, the power of nature under his fingertips, like some sort of avenging god. Most of all, he remembers what happened afterwards, and the cost of Arthur’s ignorance. He never did let himself forget how Merlin had looked on that battlefield, broken and bleeding and _dying_ after Morgana kicked him aside with nary a second glance. He never let himself forget how Merlin died. Arthur never did comfort him, in the end. And Merlin had begged for his forgiveness until his dying breath, thinking that Arthur would condemn him.

It’s always the grief, later, that wakes him. Arthur would be grateful for the reprieve, even as the bile rises in his throat. He would press the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing the images to fade from memory, wanting to do nothing but scream. He’s been trained to kill since birth, for fuck’s sake—but Merlin’s death affects him in the way nobody else’s death ever did.

This is the first time that Merlin has ever seen him, though. Arthur clings pathetically on to Merlin, forcibly reminding himself that this is a different time, and Merlin is in his arms, alive, well, and breathing.

“Don’t leave,” Arthur hears himself say, burying his face in Merlin’s chest, listening to the slow, rhythmic thuds of Merlin’s heartbeat, “stay with me, Merlin,”

They are the pleas Arthur didn’t voice out loud, centuries ago. Pleas he wishes he did, if only to show Merlin how much Arthur needed him there, by his side. He is embarrassed to notice the tears wetting Merlin’s t-shirt and struggles to get his breathing in control.

“Shh,” Merlin threads his fingers through Arthur’s head, pulling him close. “I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

There’s something vulnerable about Arthur, Merlin decides. He’s not sure exactly what it is.

There are times where Arthur would just go quiet and look at Merlin as if he couldn’t quite believe that Merlin was there. His eyes would go soft, his lips quirked in an impossibly fond smile. Merlin would then look away, shy and humbled.

Sometimes, Merlin would say something, and Arthur would freeze. His expression would become shuttered, and his eyes would go bright and pained. Merlin would ask if he’s done something wrong, and Arthur would shake off whatever it was that came over him with a quick “no, forgive me,” and kiss Merlin in the corner of his lips. Merlin tries to find any patterns in his behaviour that can elicit such a reaction from Arthur so he can avoid putting that pained look on Arthur’s face, but he just can’t seem to figure it out.

There are mornings where Arthur would just hold Merlin without a word, clutching tight, and breathing in the scent of Merlin’s hair. As if he’s relishing the feel of Merlin’s body in his arms and trying to commit Merlin’s angles into memory. Merlin would tease him for being needy, and Arthur would mumble an incomprehensible insult into Merlin’s chest. It sounded a whole lot like “clotpole”, though Merlin wouldn’t understand what it means, because that doesn’t sound like an actual word.

Other times, it’s Merlin who would be struck dumb by Arthur’s sheer— _Arthur-ness_. The last time it happened, Arthur was kicking a ball about the park with Gwaine and Perce and Leon, while Merlin sat on the grass with Gwen, smoking zoots and giggling about one thing or another. When Merlin looked up, the sunlight was illuminating Arthur’s ridiculously blond hair from behind, achieving some type of halo effect around his head. Merlin stared and stared, thinking _I’d follow that man anywhere_ , which was a ridiculous train of thought considering that Arthur was kicking a ball in a park.

They fit into each other comfortably, in a way that Merlin never _did_ with anyone else. Something about them by each other’s side, like they are meant to be there and always will be, just makes sense. It’s a ridiculously soppy thing for Merlin to believe in, but sometimes Arthur would smile that crooked smile of his and give him a look that makes him feel like he was the centre of the fucking universe, and the only thing Merlin could think of is _how could he not._

It takes a year of dating Arthur, but Merlin figures it out eventually.

It’s a Sunday, and Arthur had a nightmare the night before, one that had him whimpering like a scared child. When Merlin woke, he was horrified to notice the tears leaking from Arthur’s eyes. He shook Arthur to wake him, and when Arthur finally woke, it was with a start. The whimpering stopped immediately, though Arthur didn’t stop trembling for some time.

“It’s okay, Arthur,” Merlin murmured, kissing his forehead and clutching him close, wondering what sort of horrors Arthur was seeing in his dream. “It’s over. You’re safe now, you’re here, you’re with me, Arthur, alright?”

“Don’t leave,” Arthur whispered back, soft and pleading. “Stay with me, Merlin,”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Merlin promised him. It took them a long time to get back to sleep, but they did, eventually.

When Merlin wakes that morning, he just closes his eyes again, feeling the familiar weight of Arthur’s arm around him and the warmth of his soft breaths against Merlin’s neck. In mornings like these, where it’s just the two of them and the outside world is firmly shuttered out, Arthur would cling to Merlin like he couldn’t bear to tear himself away. Merlin closes his eyes, overwhelmed with the unnamed emotion expanding in his chest, and the only thing he could think of is _who the fuck dared to leave him?_


	3. Chapter 3

They are a year into their relationship, and it’s been the best year of Arthur's life. Arthur is unspeakably grateful to have a second chance with Merlin, even if Merlin doesn’t know it. He loves learning all there is to know about Merlin and forces himself not to be too upset when he can notice the difference between this Merlin and the Merlin of Ealdor. He knows it’s not fair of him to expect Merlin to be exactly the same, anyway.

In this life, Merlin is called Rhys Ambrosius Williams. Arthur learns that Merlin has been moving things with his magic ever since he was born, to the shock of his mother and the glee of his father. His mother is a nurse, back in Carmarthen, and his father was in the RAF, though he went MIA when Merlin was seven. They taught him to keep the magic quiet, though his father taught him how to channel the magic threatening to burst out from disuse. They went to the woods often, particularly in spring, where Merlin can make bluebells grow and butterflies fly all around the clearing.

Arthur laughs at that, even as his heart soars at the thought of a tiny, waist-high Merlin and all his magic, bright and carefree, without an ounce of fear. He calls Merlin a complete girl—he could do some truly sick shit, but chose to grow flowers? If there ever was any doubt that Merlin could be evil, the mental image alone is enough to dispel it.

In return, Arthur tells him that his mother died in childbirth and that his father is called Winston, born shortly after the war and named after the illustrious prime minister. Winston was born a minor royal with an estate in Cambridgeshire before earning a CBE in his own right, from his services in the British Army. He always was a distant father, aloof and rigid in his expectations, much like Uther had been in Camelot. A rather defining part of his character now is the lack of vitriol against magic. He is so much more cheerful for it, as much as Uther Pendragon could be considered cheerful. To the surprise of absolutely nobody, Winston is a staunch Tory, vehemently opposed to anything approaching liberalism, or, god forbid, socialism. They had a brief falling out when Arthur revealed he was attracted to men as well as women. It took Winston nearly a year to accept it, and Morgana’s role in his change of heart was instrumental _._

Arthur tells Merlin that he has a half-sister called Morgan, though Arthur calls her Morgana because she’s a complete witch. She was born from Uther’s previous marriage to an uppity French socialite which ended disastrously. He doesn’t tell Merlin that she’s every bit as sharp and sly as Morgana of Camelot ever was. Arthur hasn’t spoken to her in years, which makes for terribly awkward family dinners. Arthur refuses to tell Merlin why.

Merlin speaks about his magic excitedly. For the first time in his life, he can speak about it openly, and it brings Merlin joy to do so. Arthur is there when Merlin visits Gaius on weekends to practice, and he watches with rapt wonder as Merlin eagerly show all the things he can do. He visits Gaius as often as he can, even after he’s graduated and moved to London, and Arthur always comes with him whenever he can. He’s hungry for it, keen to see demonstrations of Merlin’s magic after so long denied.

Still, though, there is a sense of guilt and shame niggling inside him. Something about being with Merlin when Merlin didn’t even remember Arthur doesn’t sit right with him. There are days where it’s almost too much and Arthur can’t look him straight in the eye, the unease sitting heavy in his chest.

They never said King Arthur was a patient man. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

So Arthur does what Arthur has always done—he becomes impossibly short with Merlin and pushes him away. He knows that he is making a complete arse of himself, but there’s nothing Arthur hates more than situations that leave him feeling helpless and frustrated. All he could do was sit there and twiddle his thumbs, waiting for Merlin to remember. _The rest of them remembers_ , Arthur thinks to himself, _why not Merlin? It’s not fucking fair._

And what if Merlin never remembers? What if Arthur doesn’t ever get the chance to fix his wrongs?

Morgana would chide him and say “for fuck’s sake, Arthur, it’s not all about you,” but Arthur really wouldn’t like to think about Morgana, considering her significant role in the whole situation. He could just hear her challenging him, saying “and if it wasn’t for what I did, would you have treated him any differently?”. He would loathe to acknowledge her point, and it just makes him even angrier.

A part of him knows that even if Merlin never remembers, it wouldn’t change a thing—Arthur would take Merlin however he can have him. Doesn’t mean it’s easy to look into Merlin’s eyes and lie every single day. He wonders, bitterly, how Merlin did it, all those centuries ago.

Arthur knows he’s behaving strangely. With the guilt stewing in him, he’s been outright rude and snappish to Merlin, angry at him for not remembering, and angrier at himself for desperately wanting Merlin to remember. Especially when he knows he should just shut up and be grateful that he’s been given a second chance at all.

He doesn’t let Merlin go through his phone, either, because a huge proportion of his chats with both Gwen and the lads make references to his life back in Camelot. He thought of just telling Merlin and having Gwen and the lads back him up, but he’s even more scared that Merlin would think that they’re all taking the piss, and that he’s being made the butt of a cruel joke that doesn’t include him. And then where would Arthur be?

On the other hand, Arthur can tell that Merlin is growing more and more suspicious of Arthur’s behaviour. For all that he insults Merlin, Merlin really is more perceptive than he lets on.

Then one day, Merlin just snaps.

“Right,” Merlin begins, “we’re going to sit down, right now, like proper adults, and you will tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Arthur flinches—he’s never seen Merlin like this. His tone is so cold that it sends shivers up his spine. He briefly considers playing dumb, acting like he doesn’t know what Merlin is banging on about. He knows that it would only serve to stoke Merlin’s ire, but he decides to chance it.

“It’s just work,” Arthur deflects. “You know we have that massive contract coming up.”

Merlin scoffs in disbelief. They go on like that, round and round in circles, before Merlin threw his arms up in the air, exhausted.

“Is there someone else, Arthur?” Merlin accuses, the hurt evident in his soft voice. “Is that why you wouldn’t tell me?”

Arthur stares at Merlin, incredulous. “No,” he answers. Fucking hell, there wasn’t _ever_ anyone else.

“Then what is it?” Merlin pleads. “What is going on, Arthur?”

He’s also all too aware that he can’t very well come up to Merlin and say, “hi, I’m actually the legendary King of Camelot”. He’d sound like a complete nutter. And to be honest, well. Arthur doesn’t think he can bear it if Merlin turns him away, after that.

Arthur swallows. “You wouldn’t understand,”

“Then bloody well make me understand!”

“You can’t!” Arthur shouts, desperate. “You can’t, Merlin, that’s the thing,” Arthur repeats, more softly this time.

“Try me,” Merlin pleads. “I told you about the magic,”

“No, you didn’t,” Arthur bristles, getting riled up too, now. “You accidentally revealed it to me. There’s a difference, Merlin.”

“I would’ve told you anyway!”

“Would you have?” Arthur snarls, something hurt and dangerous in his tone. “Really, Merlin? Would you have?” _You didn’t last time_. He wonders, now, if they are fighting a fight they should’ve fought centuries ago. Merlin just didn’t know it yet.

“Yes, once I know that I can trust you!”

Arthur freezes. 

Hearing Merlin speak it so plainly, when Arthur has been pondering the answer to that very question for _centuries,_ feels an awful lot like getting speared in the chest. Merlin didn’t trust him, back then. Arthur swallows. He finally got his answer.

“Do you?” Arthur asks softly. “Trust me, now?”

“Yes,” Merlin sighs, the fight draining out of him. “Of course I do.”

“Then will you trust me when I say that I will tell you when the time is right?”

Something in Merlin’s face twists. “You don’t trust me,” he breathes out. “Is that it?”

Fuck, but that is outrageous. Arthur can’t imagine a world where he doesn’t trust Merlin with his life, more than anyone he’s ever known.

It makes a weird sort of sense, in the most roundabout way. Arthur can’t bear to lose Merlin. If Arthur tells him, then he might lose Merlin. Ergo, he can't tell him.

“I trust you,” Arthur whispers. “I trust you more than anyone else.”

“Then why—?” Merlin throws his hands up, exasperated. “You’ve treated me like shite this past couple of weeks. Don’t you think I deserve to know why?”

Arthur gapes uselessly, though he knows that Merlin has an extremely valid point. He searches for words and excuses, wondering if he can make Merlin understand without resorting to telling the outlandish truth, desperate—

“Alright,” Merlin says to him. There’s a finality in his tone that sends Arthur into a panic. He’s frozen stiff, stricken and terrified, wondering if he’s just lost Merlin in another way. “Fine. I’ll just go, then. Obviously, this isn’t working.”

“Merlin,” Arthur chokes.

“It’s Rhys,” Merlin replies coldly. “If you wanted me to fuck off, you should’ve just told me yourself, there's no need to for all this,” Merlin spits at him. “Never thought you’d be that sort of coward, but evidently I’m wrong.” Merlin slams the door behind him on his way out.

He doesn't come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope yous are ready for a true soap cliche in the next chapter x


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> strap in lads, it's soap cliche time

Arthur spends an inordinate amount of time looking at the closed door before he can gather his wits about him. Of course, when Arthur can move again, Merlin is long gone. He tries to call him, over and over again, but Merlin doesn’t pick up.

Then his doorbell rings. Arthur has never moved so fast in his life.

When he opens the door, it’s not Merlin standing on the other side—it’s Gwen. Arthur deflates. She’s angry—she doesn’t even say hello.

“You’re gonna tell me why Merlin is on my couch, crying because he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong to make you act like an absolute wanker.”

“If he’s at yours, then why—?”

“Lance’s there. They’re gonna go get a drink with Gwaine.”

“Gwaine?”

Gwen glares.

“Right, not the time,” Arthur mumbles. He steps back to allow Gwen in.

Gwen takes a seat on the sofa. “Well?”

“I can’t look straight at him, Gwen,” Arthur sighs. “He doesn’t truly know who I am, and I can’t tell him. He doesn’t know the things I’ve done—”

“Arthur,” she admonishes gently. “You can’t expect him to remember when you want him to.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Arthur reaches into his cupboard, pulling out the whisky from the top shelf. He offers Gwen some, but she declines. “To be honest, perhaps it’s better that he doesn’t,”

“I don’t understand,” Gwen looks at him, surprised. “Do you want him to remember, or don’t you?”

“I’m not entirely sure.” _This_ , Arthur thinks. _This is the crux of the problem._ “Do you remember what Merlin and I were like, back then?”

Arthur thinks of all the times Merlin was by his side, and all the times Arthur was never there for Merlin in return. All the kindness Merlin had shown him, his utter devotion to and his unshakeable belief in Arthur.

He thinks, with a pang in his chest, of how little he had given Merlin in return.

There’s no destiny to bind their paths now, Arthur thinks. Nothing that would make Merlin feel obligated to be by his side.

Would Merlin still love him, if he remembered just how much of a prat Arthur had been?

Arthur can see the cogs turning in Gwen’s head and sees the moment she understands. She, of all people, would know how much he wanted to do everything right, this time around.

He wonders if he can do it right when Merlin doesn’t even know half the story.

“I think,” Gwen begins cautiously. “I think it doesn’t make a difference at all, you know. He loved you then, despite your, er, misgivings. He loves you now. The only reason why he’s not here right now is that he’s confused, and hurt, and he thinks he’s done something wrong but he doesn’t know what.”

Arthur stares.

“So I think you should either tell him or pretend Camelot never happened and stop expecting him to remember. For now, at least. I know—“ she raises her hand when Arthur opens his mouth in protest. “But it’s not fair on him, Arthur.”

“Yeah,” Arthur sighs. “I know.”

“I can’t watch you go through all that again.” There’s a sheen of tears in her eyes, and he steps closer to hug her.

* * *

Merlin doesn’t return that night. Arthur knows because he decides to sleep there on the sofa so he could be close to the door.

The doorbell rings around 4 am. Arthur perks up, at first, but soon realises that it can’t be Merlin because Merlin has a key and would never bother with the doorbell. His heart sinks.

There are two coppers right outside the door. Arthur can’t breathe for the trepidation in his chest.

“Does, er, a Rhys Williams live here?” The one to the left says.

* * *

Arthur isn’t fully with it, after. He remembers swaying and leaning against the doorjamb for support and thinking desperately _no, gods, please, not again_. He nods numbly when they offered to bring him round to the hospital and listened as they called Merlin’s mum.

There’s been a stabbing, Arthur was told, down in London Bridge. Merlin was just stepping out of the chip shop when he was mugged. The chip shop man heard some shouting not long after Merlin left and found Merlin face-down on the ground, bleeding from a wound in his back. He called the ambulance immediately after, took off his apron and pressed it down to apply some pressure on the wound.

The coppers tried to placate him with empty words, assuring him that Merlin’s in surgery right now, and he’s in very good hands. Arthur says nothing, just nods as they offer their platitudes.

When he arrives at the hospital, he hesitates. Then for the first time in years, he rings Morgana.

* * *

Morgana was the one who remembered first. It came to her in dreams and visions, like it once did, and she feared she was going insane. She wouldn’t tell Arthur, at first, but Arthur wheedled and wheedled and promised that he would keep his mouth shut and listen.

_“You’d think me mad,” Morgana had said._

_“I think that already,” Arthur snorted, “so you might as well tell me.”_

When she told him, he told her to fuck off, thinking that she was winding him up. But the dreams and visions kept coming, and they were too consistent to be anything other than memories, and so Arthur, for the most part, listened.

When Arthur began remembering his life in Camelot, not one year after she began remembering, Morgana was rock solid by his side. She had crowed triumphantly, proven sound of mind, and Arthur had rolled his eyes, conceding that maybe this one time, Morgana was right.

The memories didn’t come all at once. Things began to change when Arthur began to remember the other things Morgana did. The attempts on his father’s life, the attempts on _his_ life, the attempts on Gwen’s life—the list went on. Morgana had kept quiet about it at first, pretending as though she didn’t remember that bit, but now, Arthur knew what she looked like when she was lying.

_“Will you at least tell me why?” Arthur demanded, trembling with rage._

_“How could I not?” Morgana snapped, her voice shrill. She had always lashed out when cornered. “I was fucking terrified, Arthur, alright? Uther would have my fucking head for something that I never could’ve helped. Do you think I wanted to wake up screaming my head off over something that would happen_ in the future _?”_

_Arthur understood, that he, too, had done his bit in pushing her away. The thought had kept him awake for many long nights in Camelot. She was alone and living in constant fear—of herself, fear of the fate she didn’t choose, and fear for her life. That was no way for anyone to live._

_“Morgause was the only person to reach out to me. She showed you, didn’t she? She gave you the opportunity to meet your mother. Yet_ you _carried on doing what you did, believing that magic is this evil thing that corrupts people.”_

 _“_ You _hardly did anything to dispel the notion,” Arthur shot back. “You took over Camelot, fair enough. Yet instead of showing the people what Uther had done wrong, you showed them why Uther was right.”_

 _“All you ever wanted was to make Uther proud,” she sneered. “This is why I didn’t tell you. You wouldn’t have done_ shite.”

 _“I wouldn’t have let him kill you!” Arthur snapped, furious too, now. “Whether you were the ward, daughter, whatever, you’re my sister, Gana, alright? So if you could stop making assumptions about what I would’ve done, and let_ me _tell you that myself, I would really appreciate it!”_

_That stunned Morgana into silence. When she spoke, she wasn’t shouting anymore, but rather genuinely curious. “Tell me, then, Arthur. What would you have done?”_

_“Probably get you out of Camelot, send you to the druids,” Arthur replied. He had all his life to consider it. “Or convince Father to marry you off to some distant king, where you can kill your husband in his sleep and take the throne to yourself. Yeah, I think that's more likely.”_

_Morgana laughed—it took her by surprise. She sobered. “Would you really have?”_

_“Helped that druid boy escape, didn’t I?”_

_Morgana didn’t reply for a beat, then out of nowhere, flung her arms around Arthur. “I know I went completely off the rails,”_

_“That’s one way to put it,”_

_“Don’t know how you could still see me as your sister, now, even after remembering—-” she choked out, voice thick with tears. “Everything I’ve done, I—”_

_“It’s in the past,” Arthur assured her. It felt ridiculous to hold a grudge over something that happened over a thousand years ago, especially considering his not-insignificant role in tipping her over the edge. Morgana had made his days as regent and his early years as king harder than it ought to be. She never truly succeeded, though, and that was a consolation. Perhaps it was even the only reason why he could forgive her at all. “Didn’t excuse the shit you pulled, fucking hell—but I sort of maybe understand why you did it.”_

_Morgana pulled away._

_“After I died—“ She began, and Arthur looked to her in surprise, though he knew that she must’ve died for her to be here at all. “The Goddesses of the Old Religion—they showed me what you did. I went wrong, so horribly wrong, and I atoned for it, I swear I did.”_

_“Must be a long atonement, then,” Arthur snipes._

_“It really, really was,” she said earnestly._

After that, it took them a short while to find their footing around each other again. If Arthur was being completely frank, he was even happy to get some closure. Their peace didn’t last very long, however—things soon took turn for the worse when Arthur dreamed of Merlin’s death.

_Arthur watched helplessly, with startling clarity, as Morgana thrust her sword clean through Merlin, flinching as she violently twisted the blade and kicked him as he fell. The grief struck him like a bullet in his chest. He woke with a start, gasping and sobbing over some bloke he never met._

_Arthur ran out, pounding on Morgana’s door. It was the summer before Arthur went off to uni, and his father was away on a business trip. It was just the two of them in the house—the cleaners and cooks had all gone for the day._

_When Morgana opened the doors, still blinking blearily, Arthur lost it—he stormed in, shoving her out of the way, struggling to keep himself from strangling her where she stood._

_“You killed him,” Arthur was shouting, “You killed Merlin, you fucking witch, you took him away from me, I’ll fucking kill you—“_

_“Arthur!” Morgana shouted back, “Arthur, listen to me—“_

_Arthur couldn’t listen, could only hear that terrible noise Merlin had made in his death throes, clogged with the blood in his throat. Couldn’t see Morgana in the present time, fighting to keep him still, when all he could see was Merlin, dead and broken on that battlefield, his eyes glassy and unseeing._

_“I’m sorry!” Morgana cried. “I’m sorry, Arthur, please, you must listen to me,”_

_“You don’t know what it was like,” Arthur spat at her, half-crazed with grief. “No fucking clue. Apologise all you want, it still won’t bring him back.”_

_“He might be here, now, in this century,” Morgana pleaded. “We’ll find him, Arthur, I promise,”_

_“You know what, just save it. ” Arthur turned away, exhausted and drained. He found himself unable to face her—where once stood his sister, Arthur could only see the witch who killed the person he loved the most. “I don’t want to hear any of it. You can fuck right off.”_

_Arthur slammed the door behind him. He didn’t sleep until morning._

* * *

That was years ago. Arthur had maintained a frosty silence ever since, flat-out refusing to see her or hear her out, outside of the mandatory family dinners.

Arthur is not sure why he called her, now, when it probably would’ve been better to call Leon, Gwen, or literally anybody with no prior experience of stabbing Merlin to death. He just knows that at that moment, he needs his family.

And Morgana, if nothing else, is family.

She arrives not ten minutes after Arthur did, with her flat so much closer to London Bridge than Arthur’s. The fact that she’s here at all, at four-thirty in the morning, speaks volumes about how much she just wants things to go back to normal. Whatever they were before—siblings, childhood friends, mortal enemies—it doesn’t matter now. She’s not the same person that she was before, and she is—for a lack of better word—desperate for Arthur to see it.

She finds him in the waiting room, sitting in the uncomfortable chair with his back ramrod straight, too nervous to pace. His face is blank and impassive, but Morgana knows him well enough to notice the wide-eyed panic. Arthur is in shock. He’s staring at the wall, not noticing her presence. She wonders, not with a little amount of guilt, if he was like this too, back in Camelot.

“Oh, Arthur,” she sighs.

“He’s in surgery,” His voice is hoarse.

“He’ll make it through,” Morgana soothes. If this Merlin is anything like Merlin of Ealdor, she knows firsthand what Merlin could endure. She shifts uncomfortably. “Trust me, Arthur, he’s lived through far worse.” She flinches as the words escape her lips, already knowing that it’s the absolute wrong thing to say. “At least it’s not enchanted sword, this time,” she offers helplessly.

“We had a fight.” Arthur graciously chooses not to acknowledge Morgana’s frankly terrible attempts at placating him. He supposes that’s what happens when you grow up with a father like theirs—they’d never be any good with the emotional thing. “He left. Gwaine and Lance got drunk with him, they went out out. He must’ve decided to walk back—“

Arthur wonders if he and Merlin were always doomed to end like this, on bad terms, over and over. “I swore on his grave that I’d do it right, if ever I was given another chance. And yet, now…” Arthur’s voice breaks. _I have done everything but._ “I wanted so much to do it right, that I ended up doing everything wrong.”

“You haven’t,” Morgana consoles him. “Of course you wanted to do it right. You always were the honourable one,”

“He wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t fought,” Arthur closes his eyes. Morgana is horrified to notice the tears leaking from his eyes. “I should’ve been there, I should’ve—“

“You’re not to blame, Arthur. It’s not anybody’s fault, just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. ” Morgana murmurs, pulling him into an awkward embrace. Arthur is trembling, though one wouldn’t notice, just looking at him. “He’ll pull through, I’m sure of it. He’s much stronger than you know.”

* * *

Morgana leaves when the nurses called them in, saying that she’ll get Arthur’s rucksack ready for an overnight stay at the hospital. Arthur suspects that she just wasn’t ready to face Merlin. When she comes back, she finds Arthur asleep on a plastic chair drawn close to the bed. His hands are clutching Merlin’s. Morgana deposits Arthur’s rucksack near his feet and leaves without saying a word.


	5. Chapter 5

When Arthur wakes in the morning, Hunith is there. She hugs him in hello.

“I know things haven’t been alright between you two,” she whispers in his ear. “But he will remember. I hope you have the patience to wait for him.”

“Always,” he assures her, then staggers as his brain catches up. “You remember,”

“I haven’t forgotten the kindness you have shown my son,” she smiles. “Or the good deeds you committed in his name, after.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispers. “I should’ve protected him.”

“Arthur,” Hunith chides. She has heard this all before, back in Ealdor, after the battle.

_Arthur had showed up on her door, looking exhausted and thin and so, so lost. Merlin was nowhere in sight, and Hunith knew immediately._

_“How?” She had asked breathlessly._

_“He fought bravely in battle,” Arthur intoned, sounding as though he had practised it thousands of times. He probably had. “He saved my life, Hunith,”_

_“I’m glad it was for nothing less than that,” her voice was resigned. Hunith wanted to shout at him, curse them all for taking her son away from her and getting him killed. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it, not when Arthur looked like he was killing himself over it already._

_Hunith knew what grief looked like. She’d seen it in her own reflection, shortly after Balinor left. She’d seen it in mothers who lost their babes in the winter. Now, she could see it in the way Arthur held himself too stiffly, looking as though he’d fall apart if not for sheer willpower alone. She could read it in his haunted eyes, in the defeated hunch of his shoulders. This wasn’t a man relishing a hard-won victory—this was a man hollowed inside out by loss._

_Arthur invited her to assist Gaius in Camelot, to become one of his subjects. He knew Merlin had been sending her money, he said. She would be paid well and live comfortably, he assured her, and would not want for anything._

_Truth be told, she didn’t care about any of that, she would much rather have her son back. She didn’t say it out loud. It would be cruel to say such, especially when Arthur was already trying so hard to do right by her son. Kings didn’t ride out to far-flung villages over a servant, let alone a dead one._

_She went with him, in the end, and bore witness to all the greatness that Arthur achieved._

They sit shoulder-by-shoulder, watching Merlin take one breath after another, both reassured by the beeping of the machines.

“It doesn’t matter, Arthur,” Hunith tells him. “And it shouldn’t, too. He knows you now. Is that not enough?”

“Of course it is.” Arthur swallows.

“He loved you before, too,” Hunith said, as though she could read what Arthur had in his mind. He wondered if he was so easy to read. “He used to complain about you all the time in his letters. But that’s how you know, sometimes.”

Arthur smiles. No doubt that Merlin had whined about Arthur to his mum every chance he got.

“I know my son, Arthur.” Hunith said firmly. “You’ve made him very happy indeed. Don’t throw that away, not when you finally get a second chance. Others would be so lucky.”

* * *

When Arthur woke from his nap, Merlin was already conscious. He drops Merlin’s hands immediately.

“Mum’s out to get lunch,” Merlin says. His voice is barely above a croak and he still looks pale and shaken, but by the gods, Arthur is so relieved that Merlin is even awake at all. “Don’t you have work?”

“Called in sick,” He didn’t, but Morgana did. “Fucking hell, when I saw the copper on our door—“ Arthur trails off. “Gave me quite the scare.”

Understatement of the century.

Arthur’s eyes begin to burn. He looks away, clearing his throat before standing up. "You probably want me to leave.”

“No, stay,” Merlin reaches for his hands.

Arthur stays and squeezes Merlin’s hands when he sits back down. “If we hadn’t fought—“

“Shut up, you’re not blaming yourself for this. It was a stupid row anyway.”

“No, it’s not,” Arthur shakes his head. “You’re right, I’ve been a complete twat. You deserve to know why, at least. I’ll tell you everything—“

Merlin looks as Arthur like he has sprouted another head. “I scared you, didn’t I.”

“Had me fucking terrified, you have no idea,” Arthur admits, his voice breaking. “I thought you were a goner, for sure.”

“Nah, can’t get rid of me that easily.”

At that, Arthur stares at Merlin, something like wonder and joy in his eyes. Merlin has to look away.

“Everything you want to know, I’ll tell you,” Arthur promises, “I swear it.”

“No, Arthur, it’s fine.” Merlin assures him. “You’ll tell me when the time is right. I trust you.”

* * *

Merlin is released after two weeks in the hospital, with strict instructions to stay at home, do a minimum amount of work, and go for regular checkups. It’s nothing short of miraculous, how he recovers, and Arthur suspects that Merlin’s magic might’ve had something to do with it.

Arthur takes a couple of weeks off work, because god knows he has enough accrued holidays for it. His father approves his leave request with a terse, “send him my regards, and for the love of God will you bring him to the family dinners already”. Arthur purses his lips and says yes, of course, whenever Merlin’s ready and up for it. He had just been stabbed, after all.

Arthur falls apart on the first night back.

They’re on the bed, lying side by side, not quite believing how much had changed within the course of a month.

It strikes Arthur then, that he nearly lost Merlin again. It had been such a close call—he had been so close to walking back on his own into the flat that they’ve called home. He can’t bear to imagine it, now—can’t imagine looking at the books that Merlin leaves all over the place, his shoes stacked messily by the door, seeing bits of pieces of the life they built together and knowing that Merlin will never share their space again.

He doesn’t think he could take it, if he lost Merlin for a second time. To have a second chance, and for it to be ripped from him so soon—it would destroy him completely.

Arthur turns to Merlin. His eyes are wet.

“Tell me,” he shudders, begging. “Tell me this is real, all of it, because I can’t—“

Merlin turns to face him, eyes widening at the look on Arthur’s face. He’s never seen Arthur like this, stripped bare and vulnerable, looking utterly, utterly destroyed.

“God, Arthur,” Merlin whispers, pulling him close. “It’s real, all of it, I swear.”

He cradles Arthur close, then, ever-so-gently, mindful of his stitched wound. Wipes the tears from Arthur’s face with tender touch that breaks Arthur’s heart. Arthur holds him at him, desperate for reassurance.

* * *

Marry me, _Arthur will say, later, when this is all over. It will be spring when he proposes. Merlin always did remind him of springs, with all his flowers and all his butterflies. Arthur will pop the question when Merlin least expects it—perhaps when they’re just lying on their bed, side by side, or maybe when they’re sat next to each other on the living room, preoccupied with separate things, but still enjoying each other’s company._

 _Maybe Arthur will make a grand declaration for it and go do something truly outrageous, like whisk Merlin away on a romantic getaway before proposing there._ But no, _Arthur thinks, it wouldn’t be very like them. As much as they’re devoted to each other, they’ve never really been the soppy kind._

_He likes to think that Merlin would say yes, immediately and without hesitation. Destiny made it so they belonged to each other before they ever belonged to themselves, after all. He could just imagine Merlin saying something annoying like “yeah, okay, why not,”. He’d probably grin, too, while he offers his hand so Arthur can slide the ring onto his finger._


	6. Chapter 6

“Too tight,” Arthur bats Leon’s hand away from his bowtie. Gods, he’s a wreck. There’s cold sweat gathering at his temple and knots in his stomach.

Leon heaves a long-suffering sigh.

“Sorry,” Arthur mutters. He turns serious again, and there’s a mix of emotions written on his face. “Do you think that this is the right thing to do?”

“Yes, sire.” Leon sighs again, more dramatically this time. But he can see the familiar guilt rising up again in Arthur, worry etching itself on his face. Arthur’s staring into space again, a vacant look in his eyes, lost in the past.

“Arthur, listen to me.” Arthur meets Leon’s eyes reluctantly. “The best thing you can do now is go out there and make him a happy man. You’re not leaving him at the altar over some misplaced guilt.”

“Not misplaced,” Arthur insists. Leon really rolls his eyes this time, because he’s been spending too much time with Morgana.

“You already tried it once,” Leon reminds him gently. The _it didn’t go very well for either of you_ goes unspoken, but Arthur hears it anyway. He flinches at the memory.

“And if he remembers, further down the line?”

Leon pauses to consider, carefully weighing down his answers. “Then we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“Oh, cheers, mate,” Arthur mutters. “Very reassuring.”

“You’re not the only one who’s lied to him,” Leon points out.

“Yeah, but you’re not getting married to him,”

“You are _not_ leaving him at the altar,” Leon repeats with added emphasis. “Gwaine would murder you, for one, and I don’t care if I was sworn in to protect you, I’d help him hide the body.”

Arthur stares. Who needs enemies with mates like these? “You’re making light of my very real crisis, here,” he accuses.

The accusation might be true, but Arthur has asked this exact question around, oh, maybe about eighteen times already, over the course of his and Merlin’s relationship. If he wanted infinite patience, perhaps he should’ve asked Gwen or Lancelot to be here instead.

“You want to do it right, I understand. It would be very noble, Sire, except that you’d be hurting him and he wouldn’t even understand why,” Leon points out reasonably. “And we don’t want that, do we?”

Arthur shakes his head.

“As if you really think that he will leave you if he knew,” Leon scoffs. Merlin would never willingly leave Arthur before, and he wouldn’t now, either. The notion is so outlandish that Leon simply dismisses it without a second thought. “You treated him way worse in Camelot and he didn’t leave you _then_.”

Arthur looks, in turn, outraged, hurt (and Leon feels, admittedly, a little bit guilty for bringing it up), before he settles on looking indignant. He carries on before Arthur could form a reply. “oh, fuck off, you know I’m right.”

Arthur stared at him again with bewildered eyes, a certain horror dawning slowly on him. Arthur might as well have asked _Morgana_ to be his best man. “You really have been shagging Morgana, haven’t you.”

Leon snickers, pushing Arthur out towards the door. “Not your concern anymore, Sire!”

“She’s still my sister!” Arthur bellows, but he obligingly steps out to make a husband out of Merlin.

* * *

They have been married for a year when Merlin finally remembers.

Arthur’s not sure what triggered it, considering that nothing in that idyllic scene is even remotely reminiscent of life in Camelot.

It’s autumn, and they have rented a quaint little cottage out in the Yorkshire Dales for a quick weekend holiday. It’s a lovely little place, with a hot tub round the back and windows that open out into the rolling hills of the Dales. The days are getting shorter and the air is getting crisp, and it’s an opportunity to escape into the countryside before the winter sets in proper. The fireplace is roaring, its fires stoked high. It might still be autumn, but Merlin gets cold easily—so does Arthur, to be fair, but it’s a lot easier for him to say “oh, Merlin gets cold, you know what he’s like” every time somebody asks why the thermostat is dialled up so high. Merlin’s the sort of person to hardly wear anything on a night out but would wrap up in bundles of scarves and puffer jackets during the daytime.

Arthur is on the living room, feet stretched towards the fireplace, mindlessly watching the muted telly when he hears the singing stop and the shower being turned off. Merlin sings in the shower—probably because he’s Welsh—and for all that Arthur makes fun of it, he really does enjoy listening to Merlin’s voice. He quickly unmutes the telly as he hears Merlin’s footsteps approaching.

“Alright?” he greets when Merlin walks into the room, still towelling his damp hair. He doesn’t hear Merlin’s reply, so he turns to face him.

Merlin stands in the doorway, frozen and rooted to the spot, wide disbelieving eyes firmly on Arthur.

“Arthur?” He gasps, before promptly falling to his knees.

Arthur springs up and rushes to Merlin’s side, not sure what is wrong but nonetheless feeling the panic beginning to rise up in him. Merlin is clutching his head, his eyes clenched shut against an onslaught of pain, whimpering softly.

“Merlin?” He calls out, feigning calm as he crouched next to Merlin. “Merlin, what’s wrong?”

“Arthur,” Merlin moans. His eyes are flickering gold. “Sire, what—?”

Arthur stiffens at the honorific. “Merlin, what are you saying?”

Merlin collapses in Arthur’s arms.

“Merlin!” Arthur cries out, alarmed. He slaps Merlin’s cheeks lightly. “Merlin, can you hear me?”

Merlin doesn’t make a sound.

 _“_ Fuck,” Arthur exhales shakily. Merlin is remembering, Arthur is sure of it, and Arthur isn’t sure what he expected, but it’s definitely not this. He hauls Merlin’s limp body up and deposits him gently on the sofa before he fished out his phone from his pocket. There’s hardly any reception as it is—they had driven out and were firmly in the middle of nowhere. The nearest town is some miles away, and he’s not too confident that the ambulance would come quickly enough.

He decides to call Gaius instead. Gaius picks up on the third ring.

“Arthur!” The old man greets, “how is your holiday?“

“Hello, Uncle Gaius, it’s been lovely so far, thank you,” Arthur replies. He’ fully on his way onto a mental breakdown, but not far enough along that he would forget his manners. “Merlin’s collapsed.”

“That probably should’ve been the first thing you said.” Gaius’ voice turns tense. “Any reason why you’re not calling the 999?”

“He’s remembering Camelot,” Arthur says with conviction. “Doubt the paramedics would know the first thing to do about it.”

There’s a momentary silence on the other end of the line. “Arthur, are you sure?”

“He called me sire before he passed out.” Arthur’s tone is almost pleading. “He was clutching his head before he fell, and his eyes were gold.”

Arthur never thought of himself as a worrier—he much prefers jumping into action, ill-advised as it may be sometimes, as long as he’s doing something. He leaves the worrying to Merlin. Where Merlin is involved, however, everything he knows about himself seems to be thrown out the window. Merlin’s made him _soft,_ and Arthur finds himself acting in ways he never thought he would.

He waits for Gaius to reply.

“His brain just might be trying to reconcile his memories from the past and his memories from this life,” Gaius says, though a bit uncertainly. “If he’s remembering it all at once, you can see why one would find it rather overwhelming.”

“Of course.” Arthur sighs.

“Is his breathing normal? Temperature within the normal parameters?”

Arthur touches the back of his hand to Merlin’s forehead. Merlin does seem to be a bit warm, but not feverish. “Yes, I would say so.”

“Then I wouldn’t worry too much, Arthur,” Gaius sounds a bit more confident this time. “Just keep an eye on him, for now. Give it time. He’s resilient, that one,”

“Yes, yes, so everyone says,” Arthur mutters under his breath. “You could forgive me for thinking otherwise, though, considering how much trouble he constantly gets himself into.”

Arthur either grumbled in low enough volume that Gaius genuinely didn’t catch it, or Gaius is polite enough to ignore his comment.

“I’ll see what I can find in the books,” Gaius says. “Though, most of the literature on reincarnation—if you can even call it that—really is utter bollocks, if you could forgive my language. Completely unscientific. You really could publish just about anything, these days.”

“Er,” Arthur replies, intelligently. “I’ll just keep him comfortable, shall I?”

“Yes, and please do keep me appraised of his condition.”

“Will do, Uncle, thank you,”

“Thank you for letting me know, Arthur. I’ll let you know what I find.”

He hangs up.

“Nothing is ever easy with you, is it?” Arthur bitches as he goes to find a blanket in the next room. “Why can’t you just remember your past life in dreams and bursts of vision, like normal people?”

As Arthur tucks the blankets around Merlin’s prone body, he notices the twitching in Merlin’s fingers. Merlin’s eyeballs are moving rapidly under his eyelids, and there’s a slight furrow in his brows.

“Merlin?” Arthur murmurs, feeling stupid. “Merlin, could you hear me?”

Merlin’s twitching doesn’t ease, and if anything, the furrow in his brow got even deeper. Arthur sits on the floor, reaching for Merlin’s hands.

He can’t wait for Merlin to wake, but at the same time, he reckons he’d also be content waiting for Merlin to wake. When Merlin wakes, things will change, whether he wants to or not. And while he’d like some questions answered, he really is quite happy where he is, if he’s being honest. At this moment, everything is fine.

Being married to Merlin, Arthur observes, changes surprisingly little. They already spend all their time in each other’s space anyway, and they have one circle of friends among them. Sometimes, it feels an awful lot like being in Camelot again, except now Arthur does his share of chores. Whenever there’s Arthur, Merlin tags along not far behind, and when you invite Arthur out, you make the invitation with the assumption that Merlin will be there, too.

When Merlin died, everyone rushed to convince Arthur that Merlin’s devotion to Arthur was a form of his love. Despite Arthur’s efforts to dismiss it as hopeful thinking, he ended up believing it, too. It was easy to convince himself when Merlin wasn’t there to tell him otherwise.

Now that Merlin will be able to answer all of Arthur’s questions, Arthur is terrified of what Merlin will say. Arthur knows that logically, it shouldn’t matter if Merlin loved him then. It’s a different life, and he needs to move on. It only matters if Merlin loves him, today and for the days to come.


	7. Chapter 7

When Merlin comes to, the first thing he says is, “Oh god, I really am called Merlin.“

Arthur snorts. “Better change it by the deed poll then,”

“After all the trouble I’d gone through changing my last name? Nah, I can’t be arsed,”

Arthur shrugs. Fair enough.

“You had to faint like a girl, didn’t you? I don’t think any of us did, you know, when we started remembering.”

“You try processing all that information all at once, see how you cope,”

“Obviously, my mental processing capacities are superior to yours,”

“That’s one way to say _I’ve got a big head_ ,” Merlin quips in a mocking tone, as if he was five. “Anyway, I could hear you, earlier, you know. You sounded pretty worried,”

Arthur cringes inwardly and doesn’t deign that with a response.

“Ha, didn’t know you cared,” Merlin crows, like the annoying git that he is.

“You do realise I’m your husband now,” Arthur rolls his eyes. “It is, very literally, my job to care.”

There’s a considerable pause before Merlin replies with, “yes, of course,”

“And is that—?” Arthur trails off, unable to finish. He clears his throat. There’s a chill running down his spine, but he forces the words out. “Would that be a problem?” _Because I understand if it would be,_ Arthur doesn't say. _I’d understand if you wanted out, I wouldn’t like it, but—_

“No, of course not,” Merlin grabs Arthur’s hands again, mortified at the stricken look on Arthur’s face. “No, Arthur, stop, I was just being stupid,”

“Yeah, you tend to do that often,” Arthur says weakly, lightheaded with relief. “Do you need some space?”

“Might be a good idea,” Merlin sits up. “Only if you promise not to freak out, though.”

“I won’t,” Arthur lies.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Merlin promises. He’s always seen through Arthur’s lies. “It’s just—a lot.”

Arthur hums, schooling his expression into one of calm. He’s had lots of practice doing that, growing up with his father.

* * *

Arthur comes out the balcony bringing a thin blanket. “Thought you might need this,”

“Ta,” Merlin stubs his fag on the ashtray, reaching for the blanket gratefully and wrapping it around his frame. “Tell me what happened, after—” He gestures vaguely with his hand. _After I died,_ Arthur understands.

“I legalised magic,” Arthur starts, knowing that it would be the one thing Merlin wanted to hear about the most. “Exactly a year after you died. Knowing that there would be no Camelot left standing if it wasn’t for magic—it wasn’t right.”

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t be.”

“I suppose that there was a part of me that thought that if I did—” _you’d come back_ , Arthur doesn’t say. It was ridiculous, and it beggars belief that Arthur even thought it at all, but he couldn’t help it. He’s not really keen on admitting that for a long time, he believed that Merlin would make a miraculous return. After the display of magic that Arthur had seen on the battlefield, and especially after he learned about the sort of things Merlin had lived through already, nothing seemed off-limits.

_There were times when Arthur truly thought Merlin had never left. Moments of weakness, Uther would say. There would be something in the air that he couldn’t quite place, something that felt distinctly like Merlin. He’d feel it in the forest, where the trees were thick and dense and ancient, or when he was out hunting—just him, and his horse, and a handful of his knights. He’d feel it when he was riding in the countryside, when the rolling hills expanded vast all around him, and Arthur could see for miles. He’d feel it out on the beach, when the sun was in his eyes and the waves was lapping after his heels. Most of all, he’d feel it in the storm, when the clouds were so thick and so dark and charged, when he could feel the thunder rumbling in the distance, and see the lightning flashing before his eyes._

_“Am I being haunted, Gaius?” Arthur dared to ask Gaius once, feeling truly like he had gone mad. He never voiced it out loud, before._

_“I sincerely doubt it, Sire,” Gaius assured him. “I think—you see, Merlin_ was _magic. I suppose it’s not so much that nature felt like Merlin—it’s the other way around.”_

_Gaius looked at him, then, like he was seeing Arthur for the first time. Arthur wanted to ask, discomfited, but decided not to. He doubted he wanted to hear whatever else he had to say._

_If Arthur had spent more time out gallivanting in places where nature was at its purest form, after that, well. Nobody had to know why._

“You made it better, though, for the people,” Merlin says, interrupting Arthur’s _lovely_ trip down the memory lane. “Prevented others from becoming like Morgana.”

“I didn’t do it for the good of the people, that’s the worst bit,” Arthur confesses, shame curling in his chest. This is the first time he admits it out loud. “I did it for _you_.” _Because I know that’s what you would want. Because it’s the very least I could do for you, after everything._

Merlin is silent for a beat. He lights another fag and takes a deep drag. Arthur swallows, unable to meet Merlin’s eyes for fear of the disappointment that he would find there. _What sort of king would that make him?_ Arthur wonders. _A selfish one, probably—one who destroyed his father’s legacy for the memory of a dead man._

It terrifies him, the depth of his feelings for Merlin, and the things he would do just to gain Merlin’s approval. It’s rather staggering, how much Merlin—even just a memory of him—can shape Arthur’s actions, especially considering that Arthur only knew him for about eleven years of his life, the first time around.

“Arthur, come here,” Merlin’s voice is so soft, so sympathetic. There’s no trace of disgust in his tone. Arthur scoots closer to Merlin and allows him to wrap the other end of the blanket around Arthur. “Listen to me. You made a good king—don’t give me that, modesty suits you ill, you know you did,” he doesn’t let Arthur interrupt. “I know you. And you would’ve done the right thing, eventually. The fact that I, er, died, just sort of hastened it a little.”

Arthur prefers not to talk about the darkest time in his life, thank you very much, but there was a part of him that wanted Merlin to know. It was meant to be the highlight of his reign, a time of jubilation and celebration, the time when the most evil of the land had been vanquished.

Instead, it was a time Arthur struggled the most. A time when the lies that had become the foundations of his life were completely uprooted, leaving Arthur lost and disorientated. He had lived his whole life knowing magic to be evil, only to find that magic was the reason he was there at all. He had held his father up as the benchmark of what a good, strong king should be, only to find that his father, too, had lied to him since the start.

It was a time when he learned that everything he thought he accomplished, he only accomplished because Merlin was there, helping him in every step of the way, a guardian angel hiding in the shadows. To set out a new path for Camelot, one that was lit by fairness and justice and compassion, and to do it all without Merlin by his side—

“It was the most difficult years of my life, I wouldn’t mind telling you _that,”_ Arthur grumbles. “Who knew you did as half much work as you said you did?”

“I told you,” Merlin snorts. “But you never listen, do you? _Now,_ you tell me.”

“There were times when I didn’t think I could bear it at all.” Arthur smiles wryly, turning sombre again. “If it wasn’t for Gwen, and Leon, and the others, well…”

“Don’t say that,” Merlin gasps, aghast. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ ,”

 _The biggest battle Arthur had ever fought in his lifetime, as it turned out, didn’t happen in a battlefield, after all—it happened in his head. He could see all too easily, now, how Uther had gone the way that he did._ At least he could blame something _, Arthur thought to himself,_ at least there was an enemy to fight _. He immediately regretted the train of thought, then felt nothing but shame for even thinking it at all._

_For the longest time after Merlin died, it was as though his head was clouded, full of cotton—he could hardly think about anything else but Merlin’s death, anything but the things he hadn’t said to Merlin, and things he hadn’t done. All the things Merlin had died without knowing, and all the things that Arthur was too late for._

_There was the rage, too, after that. He was furious that Merlin had the audacity to fight Arthur’s battles for him. He was furious that Merlin didn’t trust him, angry that the opportunity to fulfil their destiny together was taken from him. Perhaps most of all, furious that Merlin had manipulated him into the sort of king he wanted Arthur to be, and left him alone to sort out everything that came after._

_By the gods, how he hated Morgana then for ripping their destiny from his fingertips. How he wanted to desecrate the Old Religion and sow carnage and tear apart everything she ever believed in. Except he knew that she and Merlin were two sides of the same thing—she was the darkness to Merlin’s light. And Merlin was the only reason Camelot was still standing at all—to go down that path would only serve to dishonour Merlin’s memory and everything he had worked to achieve._

“I begged for you to come back,” he confesses in a soft whisper, leaning to rest his head against Merlin’s shoulder. “I thought if anybody could do it, it would be you,”

“I would’ve done everything in my power to get back to you, you know that,” Arthur closes his eyes, letting Merlin’s words wash over him. When Arthur opens his eyes to look at Merlin, Merlin looks utterly heartbroken, tears shining in his eyes. “But nobody could return from the dead, Arthur.”

“I know that now,” Arthur replies, resigned. He looks away again, goes back to resting his head on Merlin’s shoulder. “Not even Emrys, apparently.”

Merlin huffs a disbelieving chuckle. “Gaius told you that?”

“Oh, he told me everything,” Arthur tells him. “No wonder you couldn’t hold your drink. You never were in the tavern, after all.”

“No,” Merlin admits.

They fall into a companionable silence, after that. It’s some time before Merlin speaks up again.

“Were you happy, Arthur?”

Gods, what a question.

Arthur thinks back about his life as king.

For the most part, he really was well, functioning and ruling Camelot with a clear head. Having someone as kind as Guinevere and someone as knowledgeable as Gaius by his side certainly had been a massive help. And the knights, too—he knew he could always depend on them for companionship and trust them to keep him on his toes. At the end of the day, he could say that he wasn’t alone, but it just wasn’t the same, after Merlin died. 

There were days, though, where Arthur missed Merlin with an intensity that left him aching. Days where he was desperate for Merlin’s unexpectedly sage advice, for his insolent ribbing, and his steadfast devotion. Those were the darker days, and as time passed, they became fewer and rarer in between.

He usually would spend those days training with the knights in long sparring sessions. By the time he had exhausted himself and driven everyone clear out of his way with an angry snap or a scathing comment, Arthur would then find himself sitting by Merlin’s grave, drained and hollowed. He remembers thinking _I just want you here._ And then, _why aren’t you?_

Arthur spends a long time considering his answer. “I suppose I was,”

“You don’t sound sure,”

“I was—content with what I’ve made of Albion.” Arthur amends. That much is true—he loved Camelot more than his own life and had rested easy knowing that he did all he could to bring peace, unity and prosperity to the land. “I wasn’t unhappy.”

“Not exactly the same, though, is it?

“Well, it’s close enough,” He had his queen, his best knights, and dependable advisors by his side. That would be more than enough, for most people.

They go back in, after that. Night has fully descended and Arthur rather fancies being by the fireplace again.

“Beer?” Merlin offers.

“Yeah, go on then,” Arthur answers without thinking. There’s still one question niggling in his mind, one that has been stewing for centuries. When Merlin walks back in, Arthur blurts out, “why did you never tell me about the magic?’

Merlin, bless him, nearly drops the two bottles he was carrying. “Bloody hell, Arthur, give us a warning,”

Arthur watches as Merlin settles down next to him, getting comfortable. He has a feeling they might be sitting there for some time. When he turns to face Merlin again, there’s a guarded expression on Merlin’s face, one that Arthur hasn’t seen since Camelot. His heart sinks.

“The short answer is that it was easier not to.”

“For you?” Arthur clinks his bottle absentmindedly with Merlin’s before taking a deep gulp. “Or did you think I couldn’t take the truth?”

Merlin stiffens at the unexpected aggression in Arthur’s tone. “You would’ve been honour-bound to kill me,”

“Did you really think I was going to kill you, just like that?” Arthur swallows. _Did Merlin really think Arthur was capable?_

“You say this now, as my husband,” Merlin deflects. “It would’ve been different, back then.”

“What—you think I didn’t care, even back then?” Arthur shoots back, hurt.

“How many times did you tell me we weren’t friends?” Merlin stares at him, incredulous. “How many times did you remind me that I was only your servant, nothing more? Or threatened me if I had any ideas above my station?”

“You couldn’t really believe that,” Arthur flinches. Over the years, Arthur had convinced himself that Merlin _must_ have understood all the things Arthur wasn’t saying. Obviously, he had been wrong. That stings more than Arthur would ever admit—feels an awful lot like a bullet in the chest, if he was being honest. “I went against my father for you, I—“

“Even if you did care,” Merlin interrupts him, “Arthur, you were not above the law of the land.”

“No, I suppose not,” Arthur takes another sip.

“What else could you have done?” Merlin chuckles sardonically. “I didn’t want to put you in that position. I wanted to spare you the burden.”

“That should’ve been my burden to bear,” Arthur snaps. “You shouldn’t have made that decision for me,”

“It was to do with _my life_ ,” Merlin replies. Arthur can see his hackles rising, too, now. “Surely _I_ should have some say over it? And I couldn’t risk you sending me away, either—it was my destiny to protect you.”

“And you fulfilled it _beautifully,_ ” Arthur sneers, unable to help himself.

“That’s not fair,” Merlin protests.

“No, you know what’s not fair?” Arthur replies dangerously, “that you lied to me, for years and years.”

“Don’t give me that,” Merlin snaps back. “Not when you lied too, here and in this life, about who you really are.”

“That’s not the same!”

Gods, this is going so ugly so quickly.

“No, you’re right, it’s not, because I wouldn’t have been duty-bound to kill you if you actually told me,”

“At least you didn’t have to deal with the consequences on your own,”

“Is this what it’s really about?” Merlin huffs, disbelieving. “You’re angry because I, what— _died_?”

“No, I'm angry because you lied to me to my face,” Arthur repeats, his voice rising. “You lied to me about everything I’d ever known, and then you _left me_ to deal with the aftermath _alone_.”

“‘ _Left you?’_ Listen to yourself!” Merlin snaps impatiently. “I didn’t _leave_. I _died_ , Arthur!”

“I know!” Arthur shouts back. “Trust me. I fucking know.”

“And I _died,_ ” Merlin bit off, “I died, so you could live. I _died_ so you could fulfil your destiny. And you _did_. Better me than you.”

Arthur gapes at him, stunned. “You’re not the one who had to live, after,” Not the one who had to spend all the years after questioning the decisions that led them to that point, wondering how he could’ve done it differently. Not the one who had to live with a hole in his chest. Not the one who had to carry on, because the world didn’t stop when Merlin died. “You were meant to be by my side,” Arthur’s voice breaks, begging for Merlin to understand. When he speaks again, he speaks quietly, tiredly, “We were meant to build Albion _together_. I am grateful that you saved my life, Merlin. Truly, I am. I just wish you didn’t have to.”

“Arthur—“

“I _needed_ you there,” Arthur continues, as if Merlin hasn’t spoken. His expression is so open—this was Arthur, heart stripped bare at Merlin’s feet. “You weren’t. I looked, too, but you were never there.”

That seems to stun Merlin into silence.

“Pray, Merlin, that you’ll never know how much it hurt,” Arthur suppresses a shiver, thinking of long, lost nights back in Camelot, wishing fervently for someone who couldn’t come back. Of all the times he sat beside Merlin’s grave, telling the empty air about how life moved on in Camelot without him. Of wandering listlessly down the stone hallways, searching for someone who wasn’t there.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin concedes shakily. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“Well, you’re here now,” Arthur clears his throat, looking away into the distance again. His eyes are burning.

“No, Arthur, listen,” Merlin crouches before him, holding Arthur’s face in both hands. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’d gone and left you alone.”

“It wasn’t easy,” Arthur admits, his voice rough. “But I’m sorry too. I’m sorry it took your death for me to do what was right.” Arthur closes his eyes, leaning towards Merlin’s touch and letting his tears spill. “I wish it didn’t.”

“Arthur,”

“Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur says, trying to infuse his words with as much sincerity and earnestness that he can muster. He’d say it again, over and over, making up for all the times when he didn’t, and couldn’t. He doesn’t think it’ll ever be enough. “Thank you for my life, and for everything else besides.”

“You could’ve done it without me.” Merlin demurs, moved by Arthur’s conviction. “And you did. You fulfilled your destiny. You united Albion. That was all you, Arthur.”

“I would’ve died, over and over, if not for you,” Arthur shakes his head. “There would be no Albion without you, Merlin.”

At that, Merlin’s eyes glimmer with tears. He surges forward, suddenly, to pepper Arthur’s lips with kisses. “You have no idea,” he exhales shakily. “No idea how long I’d waited to hear that,”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur's never been one for apologies--he prefers to show his remorse with concrete action. His father taught him too well, in that respect--that apologising is an admission of weakness, and should be avoided at all costs. But he can't say it enough, now that he could say it at all, now that Merlin could hear him. He needs Merlin to know, he couldn't afford otherwise. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you the recognition you deserved, back in Camelot.”

“That’s not why I did it.”

“Regardless, it should’ve been you, by my side, at the Table—“ Arthur marches on. He swallows, then inhales deeply to steady himself. “It wasn’t right that you weren’t.”

“Arthur,” Merlin chokes up.

“I’m sorry that I was blind,” Arthur whispers again. “You always were the best of all of us.”

“Fucking hell, Arthur,” Merlin lets out a hitching sob. “The things you say, I swear to god.”

Arthur shudders and then, without warning, lets himself fall to pieces in Merlin’s arms. He’s been keeping himself together for so long, but now he’s crying like a small child, his chest heaving with heavy sobs as Merlin cradles him, soothing him with platitudes. Not once in his life has he ever had a meltdown like this, but now the apologies are spilling in a torrent from his lips, unbidden and desperate. “I’m sorry,” Arthur chokes, strangled. “I’m so sorry, Merlin,”

“Arthur,” Merlin pleads, with tears of his own.

“I couldn’t—“ Arthur gasps, unable to finish his sentence. _Couldn’t let you go, for the longest time. Could never forgive myself for letting you die._ “I’ll make it up to you, everything, I’ll do it right this time, I swear it—“

“Arthur, please,” Merlin begs. “It’s alright, Arthur, there’s nothing for me to forgive.”

Arthur sags with the force of his relief. He wipes the tears from his eyes and whispers, “Gods, I can’t believe you’re here,” There are fresh tears falling again, now. “After all this time, and now you’re here, _with me—_ “

“Yeah,” Merlin vows. “Yeah, Arthur, I’m with you.”

They sit like that, clutching desperately at one another, for some time, waiting for Arthur’s breaths to settle as Merlin combs his hand through Arthur’s hair. It feels as though there was a weight that has been lifted off Arthur’s shoulders—one that he had spent so long carrying that he’d forgotten how to be without it.

The future is truly theirs now, and the past is another chapter closed. Arthur leans into Merlin’s touch and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, that's the end of that! This work is unbeta-ed so all mistakes are mine, but please don't hesitate to point them out in the comments when you find any. Anyway thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it x


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